


kisses like rain

by nefertiti



Series: different roads sometimes lead to the same castle [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Era, Character Study, F/M, Platonic Kissing, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8478925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefertiti/pseuds/nefertiti
Summary: Arya had taken to showering him with kisses whenever he looked particularly sad, or angry, and sometimes he assumed, just when she felt like it. 
or
Five times Arya actually showered Jon with kisses and the one time it was just a memory.





	1. 5 years/0-6 months

Jon Snow didn’t spend much time around Catelyn Tully Stark when she was with child. He may have been young but he was as sharp as a blade’s edge, Maester Luwin said so himself, and he noticed how often Lady Catelyn turned her face away when he entered a room like it pained her to look at him and while she had never paid him much mind, swollen with child and with Lord Stark absent, she was unforgiving and short of temper.

It was just best if he didn’t bother her.

Still, Jon was excited. He loved his family, his lord father and his brother the most, and now he was getting someone new to love. He desperately hoped that it would be a boy, a brother who he could teach to run and fight and hold a sword or bow and arrow.

A day before the baby was born, his father returned with his men and a boy of ten in tow but the moment he got off his horse, Maester Luwin rushed him to Lady Catelyn’s room murmuring about complications, his chains clinking as they made haste.

He didn’t see his father or siblings for a two days and a night after and while he heard whispers that the babe was a girl, he didn’t know for sure.  Harwin kept saying that the babe wailed as much as his cousin did so it must be a boy.

Jon knew that Robb would have told him if they had a new brother or a new sister, but after the birth, Lady Catelyn was confined to her chambers and she kept both her husband and her children close to her as much as she could. The maester said their presence would help her heal faster.

The septa took charge of him while Lady Catelyn was bedridden, but with his lord father and siblings always in the room with Lady Catelyn and the septa turning up her nose whenever she saw him, Jon felt rather lonely. He only saw Robb when they broke fast together and as well as at supper but with Septa Mordane’s strict eye on them, they didn’t have the opportunity to talk to each other much. 

He was told the truth a few days later. It wasn’t a boy in the end. It was a girl. He had another little sister named for their great grandmother, and he found that he was a little less happy to hear it. He loved Sansa true; Father had always said that sisters were precious things, but truth be told, Sansa wasn’t much fun to be around. Even at two she didn’t like getting dirty or listening to Old Nan’s scarier stories. He wanted another sibling who was brave, and strong, and exciting to play with, like Robb.

When his lord father told him that he had a new sister he thought he knew what to expect. He expected another sister like Sansa; another Tully coloured girl who knew how to perform her courtesies before she could talk. He foresaw a sweet, mild-mannered, rosy-cheeked babe who would take after her mother like Robb did in looks and like Sansa did in looks and deed.

He was never more surprised to have been wrong. Arya Stark was nothing like anyone expected her to be.

To begin with her face was long not round, her hair was dark not auburn, and her eyes were colourless not blue. Father remarked that her eyes would turn into a cool grey the older she grew. Grey like his. Grey like their father’s. The Stark grey. And she was loud. Exceedingly loud. For three moons his father and Lady Catelyn tried to quiet her in her crib but to no avail. He overheard Maester Luwin telling them to let her wail until she could wail no longer. It didn’t sound like a good plan to him, but the maester had to know what he was talking about.

It was one night when Arya screamed and screamed and everyone left her there that Jon decided to go see her. He had not spent much time around his little sister; her mother fretted about her constantly and always kept her near and Jon tried to avoid Lady Catelyn more and more these days. Instead when he wasn’t at lessons he spent his time with Robb and Theon Greyjoy, his father’s new ward. Robb liked Theon well enough but Jon didn’t like him and he was sure Theon felt the same, but it was better than being around Lady Catelyn while she was nursing.

The noise still persisted after six moon’s turns and it soon became unbearable.

He’d never held Arya before. Father had said he was too young and Snow he may be, Ned Stark was his father and Jon listened to his word like it was law. He felt wicked as he crept into her room. She was crying and no one else was doing anything about it. _I shall only look at her_ , he told himself.

And he did at first. Arya twitched in her cradle, wrapped in grey furs and her chubby arms flailed about. Her cries were even more piercing up close. _Maybe she is scared_ , he thought. _I get scared sometimes too and even_ I’m _not that little_. She stretched her hands towards him and he moved before he could even think of it, feeling inexplicably drawn to her. He stood on his tip-toes to lift her out of her crib and hold her, but the moment he did, he felt like the greatest fool. He almost put her back instantly. _What if I dropped her?_ Catelyn Stark wouldn’t want to set eyes on him again and even Father would be wroth, but an astounding thing happened. She quieted. She gazed up at him with watery eyes, that were grey in truth, like his, and her hands grabbed at his face.

“You’re safe little sister,” he whispered. “See, nothing can hurt you.”

Arya giggled and started patting his cheeks. He held her tighter, scared still that he might drop her and she took the opportunity to start pressing her mouth at the side of his face.

Saliva dripped from her mouth and smeared on his cheek as she gave him what he supposed were her version of kisses. It was slobbery and messy and it made him laugh. She stopped eventually, her mouth widening into a yawn.

He held her close until her eyes closed and she slept. He rested her back into her crib as gently as he could.

When he got back to his chambers, Robb was still asleep. Her crawled under the furs, careful not to wake his brother, and smiled as he closed his eyes. He thought he knew what love was; Robb certainly loved him, his lord father was attentive, Sansa was as courteous as she could be to her bastard half-brother, but never before had he felt so adored.

She _was_ precious, this little sister of his – Arya, more precious than any boy could ever have been and before he drifted off into sleep, he vowed he would do anything to protect her and make her happy.


	2. 6 years/1 year

It was weeks before his seventh name day the first time Jon went to watch his father deliver the King’s Justice. He’d heard Theon go on about it enough and Jory Cassel who was quiet and good-hearted told him that it was an ugly duty but a necessary one. Jon was almost excited to see it, though he did a better job of keeping that excitement contained than Robb did.

Robb had pestered their father about it as much as he could the night before. He wanted to know who it was and what was their crime and if Father was going to use Ice to do the task.

“You will see it with your own eyes on the morrow.” Ned Stark had replied. He flicked a red curl on Robb’s head and continued with fondness in his voice, “And I hope you watch well child; for while it will not be for many years hence, one day, as Warden of the North, you shall be the one to deliver the King’s Justice.”

Jon wondered for a breath what his role would be when Robb was Lord of Winterfell. He could never be Winterfell’s ruler, he’d always known that and a few weeks ago when he’d voiced that childish ambition to Robb, he was reminded of his place, reminded that Winterfell would never be his; it was a crushing feeling. Robb had never before talked to him like that. It was just a jape when Jon had said it wasn't it? Well, he thought it was at the time. He wasn’t so sure now. Did he want Winterfell for himself? He had to admit it to himself, there was a place inside him that did. He could never have it however, and somehow that made the dream all the sweeter.

He supposed he could advise Robb one day, but what did he know of being a lord and warden of a region? There were more seasoned men who could actually be of service to Robb; the knowledge gnawed at him. Knowing that he had no real place of honour in this world was a bitter cup to drink from.

It was dark, the day they went out and snow had fallen the night before. He heard his father’s men grumble about how slow the journey was.

Surrounded by guards, a young man with a sombre face who was bound by his hands and feet awaited them as they drew near the holdfast. Jon supposed that the man’s face wasn’t always that sad. He had laugh lines by his eyes and at the side of his mouth. Jon wondered if he would be somewhere laughing now if he wasn’t about to face the Lord of Winterfell and answer for his crimes.

When his father and Jory and Ser Rodrik approached the man, a flurry of questions were asked. Jon and Robb watched the scene attentively. The conclusion was clear. The man was a killer. He admitted naught in the beginning but by the end he had confessed and cried and begged for mercy. Jon looked at his father and wondered if he would give it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Jon knew that he wouldn’t, but he was still surprised to hear Ned Stark say as much; his voice cold and his face hard. Jon had never seen his father like this before. He looked every bit the Lord of Winterfell.

Jon’s hand tightened on the reins of his pony as his father lifted his greatsword over his head. Ice. It was impressive to look at; it was made from Valyrian steel and Jon admired it very much, but today, it was terrifying to behold.

A spray of rubies on the white snow was all Jon saw of the execution when he opened his eyes a moment later.

The man’s head rolled to a halt in the white carpet just a little bit in front of Jon and Robb, a frozen look of fear and sadness upon his face. For all that he couldn’t watch the actual execution; Jon could not tear his face away from the man’s severed head and the tears drying on his face.

When he was finally able to look away, Robb was gazing at him queerly. “Did you watch it?”

“Yes,” Jon lied.

“What a terrible man.” Robb then said. “It was justice.”

 “Yes, but it was fearsome too,” Jon admitted.

“It was right.” Robb said firmly.

“Yes it was, and it was the only justice he deserved.” Ser Rodrik said as he came up behind Jon and his brother, brusquely putting a hand each on their shoulders. “You boys did well.”

Robb grinned up at their mentor and Jon smiled – a mummer’s smile. Ser Rodrik nodded before walking off, back to their father.

Jon was relieved when his father called the order for them to head home. His weakness mortified him. He just wanted to go home and forget how soft-hearted he felt, feeling pity for such a dreadful person. He wanted to see his little sister most of all and to press his face in her hair while she babbled on about something or the other. Arya could lift his spirits like no other.

On their way back home, Jon rode his pony as slowly as he could without being noticed, his mind filled with images of the man who would never smile again. His father slowed his pace when they were close to Winterfell and rode next to Jon.

“You looked away when I took his head,” his father said, quietly enough that only the two of them could hear.

“I didn’t!” Jon protested.

“Do not lie to me son.” Ned replied. “I know a lie when I hear it.”

Jon was shamefaced. He could feel his cheeks starting to redden. Robb didn’t look away, and Robb didn’t seem as though he felt like crying. He was laughing up ahead with Theon and Jory. It was just Jon who was affected.

When he glanced up he expected to see his father looking at him with disappointment, instead Ned Stark’s eyes were sympathetic.

“Do you know why I had to kill him?” his father asked.

“He was a killer. He had to face the justice he deserved,” he remembered Robb and Ser Rodrik’s words. “It was terrible,” Jon added, before he could help himself.

“Aye, it was terrible,” his father agreed. “But it had to be done.”

Jon nodded stiffly. “Robb did well,” he said hesitantly.

“He did. Robb reminds me so much of Brandon,” Ned said, smiling faintly. His voice was far off and Jon wasn’t even sure if his father was focusing on him anymore. He was keen to listen anyway. His father never talked about his dead siblings. “So eager and brash, and so ready for what’s to come. For his future. He’ll have a better fate though, I’m sure of it. A better fate.”

Jon didn’t respond. Father was talking to him yes, but not really.

Lady Catelyn and his sisters were waiting in the courtyard as they approached. Sansa stood next to her lady mother demurely with a gentle smile on her face. Arya did nothing demurely. She was bouncing and wiggling on the spot and her eyes were glancing in every which direction. A fond smile appeared on his father’s face as he dismounted.

He swept his wife up in his arms but only kissed her on her cheek. Sansa stood by patiently, waiting to give her father a hug. Arya tugged at her hand and Sansa sent her a soft reproach that Jon couldn’t hear. Then when her eyes met the group he heard garbled cries of “Father!” and “Jon Snow!”

The moment Jon got off his pony Arya ran to him with as much steadiness as a girl her age could muster, which wasn’t very much, and she threw herself in his arms. He caught her as he always did. She called out his name again and babbled out a few other indecipherable words.

She gave him long, wet kisses on his cheeks and nose. She even managed to land a few kisses on the mouth. Arya had taken to showering him with kisses whenever he looked particularly sad, or angry, and sometimes he assumed, just when she felt like it.

When he turned around Lady Catelyn was looking at them reproachfully and Sansa followed her mother’s example but Father and Robb were grinning, and so, Jon realised, was he.

Arya was good at finding ways to make him smile.


	3. 11 years/6 years

After a long day of training Jon wanted to cool off. He was getting better at swords every day. Robb was a better lance, but Robb was bigger than he was. Jon was slim, steady and quick on his feet. When he held a sword in his hand it felt as though he was built to wield one. He knocked Theon to the dirt today and he felt nothing but pride as the older boy blustered that he _let_ Jon win.

Even Robb, who admired Theon, laughed at his friend. “If that’s true, then you have been _letting_ Jon win almost every day for nigh a fortnight.”

“May the Others take both of you,” Theon had grumbled before storming off.

Robb sent Jon a grin before going after Theon, leaving Jon to go to the godswood on his own. Jon didn’t mind. He liked having time to himself sometimes. When he got closer to the hot springs he realised his plan for solitude would be forestalled. Under the heart tree he found a small figure huddled on a stone, wearing a blue dress.

It was his little sister, Arya; she was glaring stonily at the dark waters. Gods knew she had more anger in her than Jon thought it was possible for any six-year old to have but as they grew older he realised that she was rarely angry without cause.

“You shouldn’t be out here all by yourself, little sister,” her head snapped towards him and usually seeing him would make her eyes light up, but this time she just looked sad.

He sat on the grass next to her, the stone giving her a little more height. She was almost face level with him.

“What troubles you so?” he asked, nudging her slightly. She took a deep breath before looking up at him.

“I heard Sansa telling Jeyne that the only reason you look so much like father is because you’re a bastard. Is that true?”

He felt a pang in his chest at those words. Arya had never called him a bastard before. It was only a matter of time, he understood. Lady Catelyn never called him by his name; she called him _boy_ or _the bastard_ instead. Theon called him bastard like it was his true name.  Even Robb called him bastard-born sometimes. It shouldn’t have bothered him the way it did. It was what he was. Yet it felt like a knife to the heart each time. Maester Luwin told him once that bastards grow up faster than true children. He needed to harden himself against that word, but try as he might, he couldn’t.

He answered Arya as honestly as he could, however.

“Yes. I’m bastard born and I suppose that is why I look like father,” Jon’s throat was thick as he responded.

In looks, he had nothing of his mother. The only thing Jon’s mother left him with were shame, guilt and hope – hope that he could win out the stain she had left on him when she birthed him and find some honour in this world, and of course there was the hope that deep down she was a good person; a person he could admire despite her mistakes, the way he did his father.

Arya’s lip wobbled and he saw the tears in her eyes before she ducked her head; she would start crying soon if he didn’t say do something to stop her. He couldn’t imagine why his bastardy would make her so miserable. Gods knew it made _him_ sad sometimes to think of it but Jon didn’t see why it should affect Arya in this manner. It didn’t make him any less her brother.

 _Except it did_ , a traitorous voice in his head whispered. _You’re not her true brother. She’s only your half-sister._ Her next words shook those horrible thoughts out of his head.

“Then, what if I am a bastard too? That would mean that my lady mother isn’t my mother, wouldn’t it? She is my mother isn’t she Jon? I know that we disagree sometimes, but I love her so dearly. She has to be my mother. She has to be!”

Jon shook his head, bemused. Why would she think – and then her initial question suddenly made a lot more sense. Besides Jon, she was the only one of Lord Stark’s children that looked like him. They had the long faces, the grey eyes and the brown hair of the Starks. That would have made him happy were he Arya, but she wasn’t him; Lady Catelyn loved him not, but she did love her daughters and they loved her in return. It made sense that Arya would want something of her mother in her.

Even if he didn’t see Lady Stark swollen with Arya, he would know if Arya wasn’t a trueborn Stark. Bastards are different to other children. He’d know. He thought about the nights he spent thinking about his mother; wondering who she was and what she was like. In his eyes she was kind-hearted and beautiful, a true lady, but he did not know. Not truly. It was only a wish. She could be anybody, a scullery maid, a tavern wench, a whore. He wouldn’t have Arya believing that she didn’t really know her own mother.

“Sansa said – last night she told me that she thought that I might be bastard born and that mother and father know that I’m a bastard and that perhaps they just didn’t tell me because they wanted to be nice to me and –”

“Arya Stark,” he cut her off before she could work herself into hysteria. “Look at me.”

It was usually a lot harder to convince Arya to do something but she turned towards him, misery etched in every line of her face.

“You are the true born daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully Stark. I saw your lady mother when she was large with you inside her. You may look more like our lord father than everyone else but that’s only because you’re northern.”

Arya blinked owlishly, “Robb’s northern too. And so are Bran and Sansa. And they look like mother. Why don’t I look like her? They all do.”

“Of course they’re northern, just like you,” he said, and the he mussed her already messy hair. “But you’re all of the south too. The Stark blood just runs stronger in your veins than it does in theirs. The blood of the north. You’re part Tully but you’re also a Stark. That’s something you should be proud about. If you doubt me then ask Maester Luwin or Old Nan. They too knew you when you were within Lady Stark and they would not lie to you. Nor would I. You are a true daughter. Always believe that.”

Arya grinned toothily as she flung her skinny arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, and then his other cheek, and then his forehead, and then his chin, and she didn’t stop until she pressed kisses all over his face.


	4. 13 years/8 years

His lord father once told him that he had never known an authentic winter and Uncle Benjen had told him and Robb and Theon stories about how much colder it was like on the Wall. How there were no hot springs and no gardens and how they were frozen more often than not. “It’s a noble calling, serving and protecting the realm,” Uncle Ben had said, “But honour doesn’t do much of a job of keeping you warm, day or night.”

Jon liked the snow; white and bitter and cold: his namesake, but he wondered if he could withstand the sort of cold that you felt deep in your bones, the sort that left your teeth chattering and your blood freezing. A cold that burned. There were summer snows this morning and it rained overhead, but the castle kept them all as warm as summer. Jon had still worn thick furs. There was a chill in air was and he wanted to spend some time outdoors.

He had ducked past the cooks that morning and stolen frost coloured roses from the glass garden earlier that day to give to his sister. Arya loved flowers. Sansa loved flowers too, but not in the way Arya did. Sansa liked it when Robb or Bran would pick her a pretty rose to hold in her hand. She would sigh and say it was _oh so delightful_ but she’d forget about it soon enough. Arya loved flowers as fiercely as she loved playing stick swords with Bran. She would dig through the dirt trying to find the prettiest ones and keep them by her bedside. Her mother and her septa despaired to see her running about clutching leaves and wildflowers in her fist and with dirt all over her hands and dress, but Arya Underfoot was made for wild things.

Their father would smile every time she gifted him with flowers. He’d heard Lady Catelyn complaining at him before that he needed to stop encouraging her unruliness but Ned shrugged her off.

“She’s a child Cat. Let her be. Youth flies away faster than we realise, and she has time enough to grow into refinement.”

Ned Stark was indulgent of his youngest daughter in a way that few others were. Jon couldn’t fault him. It was hard to look into those dark, glinting eyes and to see that mischievous grin on her face and not give her exactly what she wanted.

Jon found Arya sagged against the wall of the broken tower. She was covered in sweat and breathing heavily but there was something in her face, she seemed pleased.

Arya was a scrawny little girl, all knees and elbows, who was always dirty and whose hair was always messy but this time she was covered in hay not dirt, like she just climbed out of a hayloft. Not much of a surprise. She liked horses. Arya smiled broadly when she saw him, her solemn face transforming almost instantly.

“Are those flowers for me?” she asked, nodding at the roses in his hand.

“Yes,” he pulled them out of reach when she rushed towards him, “But not just yet.”

She shot a glare at him but it didn’t last long. She just slumped to the floor and grinned. It seemed as if she was too happy to be angry for more than a little bit. She was all smiles and she looked especially pretty today, but he didn’t say it.

Whenever he called her pretty she would wrinkle her nose and search his eyes doubtfully. Sometimes he felt as though she was trying to figure out if he was lying to her or not. He had other ways of letting her know but her uncertainty made him cross.

He was sure that her septa, and their sister, and even her mother were to blame for that. Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn were from the south and they weren’t used to Arya’s sort of prettiness; soft faces, quiet grace and gentleness, coated in courtesies and false pleasantries was what they valued. Jon didn’t see the use in beauty like that. Arya was all wildness and bravery. She was the north. There was more beauty in that than in southron delicacy.

Jon sat next to her and he started weaving the roses together. She smiled up at him.

“What are you doing?”

He looked down at her and smiled. “You’ll see.”

Arya looked at him curiously and then shrugged. They sat in silence for a while; the only sound was the rhythm of their breathing. He knew she was getting impatient. Patience wasn’t Arya’s forte. So he glanced at her and somehow, there was still a smile on her face.

“Your smile is as wide as a lazy tomcat that was just presented with a bowl of milk,” he remarked. “Did I miss something of consequence?”

“I almost beat Bran playing stick swords today!” she said, triumph in her voice.

“Almost?” he asked. “That doesn’t sound like something to boast about. You didn’t _win_.”

Arya punched his arm before giving him a look and shaking her head as if he was missing something quite obvious. “Ser Rodrik trains Bran with swords. I’ve never had any training. And I almost beat him. That makes me better than him.”

It was an odd sort of logic, but it made sense in a way. He couldn’t really say if she was better or not, but he knew she could be good. He wondered what she could do if she spent time with a master at arms. She was too skinny for a longsword but there were other options perhaps. _Perhaps..._

“Well met, little sister. I suppose if you put a needle in my hand I wouldn’t even know how to sew a straight line.”

“Neither would I.” Arya confessed, sadly.

He laughed at that and soon enough Arya joined in. He stopped weaving for a moment to tousle her hair and colour kissed her cheeks.

He looked down at his work. It was a little crooked, but a skilled weaver he was not. He stood up and pulled his little sister to her feet. He placed the crown on blue flowers on her head. He felt stupid as he did it and awkward too.

She cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head to the side. “Why did you–”

“Today, you are my queen of love and beauty.”

Jon didn’t give his little sister a chance to refute him. He immediately hoisted her onto his back. She yelped before she let out a loud laugh. He couldn’t see her but he could feel as she bent down to kiss the top of his head. She placed little pecks on his head over and over and he was sure she was getting hair in her mouth but she didn’t seem to care.

“Well since I received your favour, now you’ve received mine.” Arya said proudly when she finished bestowing him her kisses. “I love you, Jon Snow.”

“And I you, little sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked this chapter but it was actually so saccharine that I could barely re-read it. I hope you guys liked it.


	5. 14 years/9 years

He was leaving for the Wall in a few days and Jon could hardly understand this cold, impenetrable rage he felt. His father approved of him joining the Watch like Jon had hoped he would. He was going to be a ranger like Uncle Ben. He was going to protect the realm from all sorts of evil. Not grumkins or snarks or the Others perhaps, but wildlings and whatever else lay beyond the Wall. It was an honourable duty and he was proud that he was going to be a part of such a highly regarded guild.

Mayhaps he would never be The Young Dragon, but he could still be a man of honour.

And yet, he had been sour more often than not since Maester Luwin informed him that he had his father’s sanction.

He would miss Winterfell of course. He would miss Robb’s careless smiles, he would miss Bran’s adventurous spirit, he would miss Arya’s wildness, he would miss Rickon’s curious nature and his father – he would miss his father who taught him all that he could.

Jon Snow was the natural born son of Lord Eddard of House Stark. Most men didn’t recognise their bastards, his father was different. He was an honourable man. He took care of his and his own. Jon was proud to come from such ilk. When he was younger he had hoped that he would one day be worthy enough to carry his father’s true name, to be called Stark. It was a foolish dream.

“I’m full of foolish dreams,” Jon said to himself. Ghost raised his head from on the floor next to his bed and breathed loudly through his nose almost in the mimicry of a snort before lying his head back down again. There was something knowing in his red eyes that made Jon look away.

He supposed it made sense that his direwolf agreed with him. There was a connection between himself and his wolf that he didn’t quite understand.

Uncle Ben, Robb, and Theon had gone hunting with Lord Stark, and the rotten prince, and the fat king and their men. Rickon was with his lady mother. The girls were at their lessons with their septa and Bran – Bran was keeping his distance.

Jon had snapped at him quite harshly a few days ago when Bran had asked his opinion on naming his direwolf and his little brother had been avoiding him ever since.

Jon was lashing out at everyone of late.

He would stop being this angry soon; when he was away from Winterfell. It had dawned on him that it may be that leaving Winterfell was the thing that was making him so bitter. He knew that when he took his vows, when he said the words, he would never be able to call Winterfell his. Not that he would ever have been able to do so anyway. It was that old dream of his that had come rushing back.

It would never happen, he knew that, and he had three brothers and two sisters. He would never want to usurp their rightful seat. Still, the poisonous thought persisted. Honour. What honour was there in the dream of denying your siblings’ their birthright?

 _I may have been bred from lust and sin but that doesn’t mean that I must act like it,_ he reminded himself.

Jon looked around his bedchamber. He couldn’t take everything with him to the Wall. Ghost would come with him. He had to. And he had to take his clothes and his sword, but he had to leave so many things behind.

A hurried knocking on his door drew Jon away from his thoughts. Ghost cocked an ear, his eyes alert. Before Jon had the chance to say anything, his little sister burst into the room. She was out of breath and her hair was tangled. There was a spot of dirt on the tip of her nose that he knew she couldn’t have possibly gotten from her sewing lessons.

“You have to hide me!” Arya pleaded, breathlessly. Ghost trotted over to her and Arya sank her fingers into the white fur behind his ears.

Jon couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the first time Arya had come to him when she ran away from her lessons. Most days he would send her back, but there were days that her stubbornness won out. On those days she’d usually beg him to tell her stories, not the silly ones about true love and gallant knights and fair maidens, the ones about queens and warriors and monsters.

She would be punished for it every time she got caught, hiding away from her septa and steering clear of her lessons, but it never seemed to stop her. He’d never met someone as wilful as her before. Her mother or her septa would give her harsh penance this time. Especially now that Princess Myrcella joined the girls for their classes as long as the Royal Family was here. But he was feeling a little too selfish to be the responsible one today. He only had so long before they both left Winterfell; him going further north and her going south.

“Do I now?” he asked, “And what will I get if I do?”

“You’ll get my love,” she replied blithely.

Jon swung his legs to the floor and sat up. “I already have that, I’ll need something else.”

Arya paused and looked at him thoughtfully before smiling widely.

“Oh I know! Nymeria could come sleep with you at night once a week,” she suggested then, “She’ll protect you from grumkins and gargoyles.”

“Grumkins aren’t real, little one,” Jon reminded her. “And the only gargoyles we have here are covered with moss. Besides, I have Ghost.”

At the sound of his name, the wolf hurried back over to him, sitting once more at the side of his bed.

“I...can sew you something then. A cloak!” she decided, excitedly. “I know I’m not very good, but it’ll be sufficient enough.”

He raised a brow.

“Maybe not _sufficient_ ,” she added, her voice sheepish “But it will cover your shoulders. Well, it might cover – how about I think of something later?”

“Fair enough,” Jon agreed easily enough. He didn’t really want anything from her in any case. He just wanted to see what she would come up with. Arya had a wild imagination.

She climbed onto the bed and sat next to him. He ruffled her brown hair and she laughed. He loved to hear her laugh. It made his insides light up.

“Where’s Nymeria?” he asked, curiously.

“Septa Mordane came after me this time,” she pouted. “I didn’t have time to untie her.”

“You need to start going to your lessons,” he warned her. “I know you don’t like them but –”

“Oh of course I don’t like them. What good is sewing ever going to do for me? And I’ve learned my stupid courtesies! They’re just about lying and pretending you feel one way when you don’t. Any idiot can do that. It takes honour to speak the truth. Why can’t I do that?”

She crossed her arms and her lips were still settled in a pout. Jon wasn’t really sure why she needed to know how to sew and mind her courtesies; he just knew that was how it was. Jon thought it was stupid too but their father wanted her to learn for a reason, he was sure of it. He was in the middle of telling her so when she turned to him sharply.

“Wait!” Arya said, interrupting him once more. “I know what I could give you.”

“What can you g–”

Arya pounced on him before he could finish his sentence, quick as a shadowcat, and peppered kisses all over his face. He had fallen flat onto his bed while her lips darted all over his face. She left a few lingering kisses on his mouth and Jon grinned. Their laughter mingled as she settled next to him.

Arya tucked her head into his shoulder and one of her hands clutched his tunic. Jon liked moments like these. He could hear their breaths puffing out as one, in sync. It was like his little sister was part of his heart, his soul, his blood. Perhaps that may be why he cherished her above all else.

“Jon, can you tell me about Visenya and Rhaenys again?” she asked looking up at him shyly. “And–”

“And all about the conquest,” he finished the sentence with her.

Arya loved hearing about Queen Visenya Targaryen, and Queen Rhaenys Targaryen, and Princess Nymeria of Dorne, and Wenda the White Fawn and even of some of the she-bears of House Mormont. They were her heroes in many ways.

Jon dropped a kiss at the top of her head before he started weaving a web of words as he remembered the knowledge he’d garnered during his lessons with Maester Luwin.

Arya was grinning when Jon got to the part where the Targaryen conquerers rode their dragons.

Jon would miss this, but he would be able to visit them in Winterfell whenever they returned. Jon knew his father and he knew that the south wasn’t meant for them – not for Starks. He wouldn’t be able to resist visiting home every now and then. And surely he’d bring Bran and his sisters back with him. Uncle Ben visited as much as he could, Jon could do the same. He wasn’t leaving his family, not truly. He was just gaining a new one.

And Arya – she would never leave his heart. None of his siblings would. They would always be his family. He could love them and still keep his vows.

Arya was looking up at him, enthused and at some point their legs were tangled together. If Lady Catelyn were to walk in she would be infuriated at their lack of propriety, brother and sister lying in bed together. _It was innocent enough_ , he thought, and in any case didn’t want to spend much time worrying about what Lady Catelyn would think. It didn’t matter what he did, she never thought anything of him that wasn’t bad anyway.

As a man of the Night’s Watch, he realised. He need not ever have to worry about what Catelyn Tully thought of him ever again. He was almost a man grown and he needed to learn to stop cowering before her and her harsh words and her hard eyes.

Suddenly, going away didn’t seem like a thing he should be angry about anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is where the fluff ends. The last chapter is going to be very melancholy.


	6. 16 years/11 years

Jon was tired; so very tired. Death takes a toll on a man. _It takes a toll on places too_ , Jon thought as he stood in the courtyard of Winterfell and looked at the castle, burned and scarred and broken, like he was.

His mind went briefly to Ygritte. He tried to imagine what she would feel if she lived long enough to see the castle. Her eyes would have widened to see Winterfell perhaps, even in its ruined state. _I loved a maid as red as autumn,_ he’d heard Dareon sing once, _with sunset in her hair_. Did he love Ygritte? He may have, but his memories of her were so blurred, he could only remember flashes of what they had. And all those memories did was left him with a lot of confusion.

He wondered what she would have said if he brought her here. Ygritte would have probably made a jape of it. Laugh at him for being raised in such a place and calling it home.

Home.

Winterfell was his home once. When the people he knew roamed the halls, his siblings, his father, the cooks, the stable boys, the men at arms, the guards, even Lady Catelyn. When he was a child he would have given anything to call Winterfell his. Now it felt less like a home and more like a tomb. Even with his wilding comrades around and Maester Sam, it wasn’t home, not anymore.

He had left the Greyjoy siblings in the dungeons at Castle Black without listening to whatever the turncloak was so desperate to say to him, and the queen, the princess and Jeyne Poole had stayed behind with Stannis’s men and the wildling princess guarding them until Stannis Baratheon returned. Lady Melisandre didn’t stay with them as he had hoped. She followed him back to Winterfell.

The red woman lurked about the halls in her long, red robes and flowing silks, watching him with fervour in her eyes. It unnerved him. He wished he could send her away, but he wasn’t so ungrateful to do such a thing. She resurrected him. He was cold and dead and then born again through fire; and though he never asked her to, never wished anyone would, he was grateful for it at the time.

For there was one thing on his mind after his rebirth through fire, his sister. Arya Underfoot. He was killed because he desired to save his sister. Love may truly be the death of duty, but he didn’t regret his choice. He only regretted that he died before he could save her. He let her down when she most needed it. Jon didn’t want to make that mistake again.

But it was Jeyne Poole that they brought to him when he awoke, along with Asha and Theon Greyjoy;  Jeyne was beaten and scarred and pitiful, not Arya. He had never before felt a rage that intense. He subdued it as much as he could so as not the scare the girl. Furious he may have been, he was no Bolton or Lannister. When his anger got away from him, he didn’t take it out on the nearest object. He let some of the spearwives clean her up and found a place for her in Castle Black until he could return to Winterfell.

Somehow Winterfell was still his goal. He had felt as though he wouldn’t be able to rest until it was no longer in Bolton hands. He had to bait the Bolton bastard out of Winterfell. And despite her deceit, Jeyne was the person to help him. She had no wish to go back to Winterfell, the place held more nightmares for her than anything, but she gave him her face.

He rallied the North in Arya’s name, the Cerwyns, the Mormonts, the Glovers, the Reeds, even some of the free folk, they all fought for her and they all fought for no one.

When the truth was revealed, most of his father’s bannermen, after blustering and shouting at him for his deceit, agreed that he should hold the seat of House Stark until Ned Stark’s little girl came home. It was a hopeless wish. They all knew that Arya Stark had to be dead, he knew it too.

He could still feel the ghost of the kisses she placed on his face after he had given her Needle. _Sisters are precious things._ His father was right when he said that.

Jon felt as mislaid as he did, all those years ago, the first time he realised that he was had no place in the world. The Night’s Watch was his place for a time, but for him Castle Black now held the taint of betrayal. He could not stay there, and yet he could not deny his duty to protect the seven kingdoms from the Others, so he stayed at Winterfell. A Stark bastard was better than a Bolton bastard, some men had proclaimed but he knew that they looked at him with distrust. Bastard and liar that he was, he was also a dead man who walked the earth. People took caution to not look him in the eye, so they wouldn’t see the emptiness there. And the coldness. He wondered if the unending cold was because of the fierce winter winds or perchance because death leaves a man a corpse. Alive but still dead, still cold, and still rotting.

The light, the purpose was gone from him after he killed the Bastard. Failure had tasted like poison in his mouth. The only thing that brought him any comfort was Ghost. When he was betrayed, Jon slipped into his direwolf when he felt his life slowly slipping away from him. Jon was more wolf than man now. He had spent so much time in his direwolf before the red woman resurrected him, their bond had become so much more. Ghost never left Jon’s side, not making a sound but baring his teeth at anyone who came near him. His direwolf could sense his need to be alone with his failure.

When he had awoken in the flames, his bones were stiff and his body was in unimaginable pain and he growled. The red woman knelt before him and called him Azor Ahai reborn, the prince that was promised. Her followers were as convinced as she was that he would be the one to end the long winter.

He was less than sure. Whatever righteous path she saw for him, he could not see it for himself. He would not suffer the world to as cruel a fate as being swallowed whole by an army of Others. _For the night is dark and full of terrors._ He would do as he must. But he was sure she was wrong.

She and Sam were the only ones who knew of his true parentage, and the crannogman of course, and she seemed to think that this was proof that he was the one that was promised. The man who was born from ice and from fire. A prince.

Howland Reed may have informed him of his princely father after he helped him retake Winterfell, and of his mother too – his mother. He was a dragon raised as a wolf and reborn in the heart a wolf, but a bastard still. Bastards weren’t princes.

The crannogman had told Jon so much of Lyanna Stark; it felt as if he knew her. His mother was beautiful, and good-hearted, and highborn as he had always hoped, but he would never know her, and the man who raised him would never be his father. His father – Rhaegar Targaryen was by all rights a raper and a kidnapper. There was nothing worth admiring in someone like that. The truth was a heavy burden to bear. He had so many burdens of late.

The heaviest one on his shoulder was the thoughts of the women who were a part of his life. Their lives ended in tragedy, every woman who had ever loved him. It seemed as if being a woman and loving him was a cursed combination. Jon almost understood Lady Catelyn of House Stark’s hatred for him, not that it saved her from such a fate. She was killed too.

Jon thoughts returned to Arya. It had always felt like half of his heart belonged to her and it worked the other way too. It felt as if he’d lost her all over again. The wolf inside him made him growl.

Jon’s thoughts kept returning to the three women who shaped his life in so many ways; Ygritte, kissed by fire, Lyanna Stark, the northern beauty and Arya Stark, the little wolf.

He thought, for a moment, of the similarities between his mother, his sister, and his lover. They were, all three of them, wild, and wilful, and lovely. They had all loved him and they had all died too young. He killed his mother to be born. Ygritte, was killed trying to win what she thought was her freedom. And Arya, he almost believed she was alive once. He had wanted her with him no matter the cost, and now –

Arya was the only one of the three that he could say he loved without feelings of conflict, without any feelings of doubt or resentment or shame, his wild, stubborn little sister.

 _She’s not my sister though_ , he thought. _She never was._ _And she, along with so many people I loved, had perished._

He had felt the sharp loss all over again. It hurt him to just to think of her. Ghost sat at his heels and licked his hand. The direwolf surely felt how despaired Jon was.

He remembered when the day he left Winterfell. Arya giving him happy kisses to express her delight. His heart used to burst with joy every time Arya rained sweet kisses down on him. Her skinny arms wrapped around him, her cool eyes filled with mirth and her soft lips pressing against him, reminding him that he was loved; that she would always love him.

He would never feel that again.

That was what had been missing, he realised with some dismay. This is why Winterfell didn’t feel like home anymore. It was because he wasn’t home. Not yet. Not truly. And if home was wherever Arya was, he’d never be able to go home again.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya is very much alive, but Jon doesn't know that. As far as he knows, his brothers were slain, his sister was missing and his little sister was dead. This final chapter is longing, nostalgia and guilt.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was stuck in my head and I need to get it out before I get back to my other story. This was supposed to be a short one-shot, but then it ended up turning into somewhat of a character study. 
> 
> Show!Jon is kind of a disappointment to me so this is definitely more about the book characters than the show characters. 
> 
> I already know what I'm going to do with the other chapters. It's going to span from when Arya was born to a little after ADWD. Hope you enjoy reading.


End file.
